At Sipi Falls

Still run, still run, still run
sisters of grace, paired jewels
at each of three singularities of rock-space

thrice a pair of tall maidens
side by side speaking, one lightly,
one charged, exclamatory, voluble

when the sun lets her hair down
they comb the tresses, light strands
and a massed heavy lock, thrice over

hill-scrambling from site to site
I see a tiny chameleon on a stick.
I am it. It is I. The great sisters

appear not to observe; yet do I detect
a murmur, a note of merriment
at our smallness, our hasty change? Our being, non-being?

Ladies, you too shall pass. Of a brief moment
some seconds are left me. Your sojourn is longer. Together
something is made of us. A link of creation.

Sisters, help your brother to speak! A rainbow
hovering in spray where I stand … girls, girls,
enough with the games! Look they direct me,

look look and I see time falling,
the slow and the fast as one, a descent
of dream, and the dash and scatter

caught in a plunge that seems to last for ever.
At the lip of a horizon
among half-lines and pieces of light

I am met a moment at source – and the moment is over,
here at the Falls of Time, where six kindred light-streams
still run, still run, still run

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